Choices
by OneTwoMany
Summary: I tweaked Chosen and little and went from there. BuffySpike to the max.
1. Chapter 1

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CHOICES

By OneTwoMany

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SUMMARY: A slightly alternative chosen.

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RATING: This part G, but R eventually

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DEDICATION: Monanotlisa and Scarlettfish, who wanted Spuffy schmoop.

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THANKS: Juliabraa and BuffyX

Having had enough of gazing at the pit of death and destruction that was Sunnydale, Buffy climbs back into the school bus. Foot over painful foot, up the three well-worn steps. She's vaguely aware that the others may be following her, but her eyes are straight ahead, scanning the aisles and seats.

It takes a second, but she finds Spike sitting on the floor between the seats, coat draped across him, hiding from the sun. He looks a little singed around the edges courtesy of their early-afternoon bus run - how long has it been since done one of those? - but otherwise no worse for wear. 

Not dust, anyway, and right now anything more than that's a bonus. 

The old seat creaks, as Buffy eases down to sit near him. It's painful to move; she's bone tired, and her stomach still aches, and her hand burns from where she'd ripped the heated, glowy amulet from around Spike's neck. He'd been so determined to die. Stupid, wonderful heroics. She feels the wave of relief wash over her again. 

They've been through so much, and there's something instinctive about returning to him now. 

"So, Sunnyhell's completely gone, eh?" he asks, gently raising a hand to rest it tentatively on her knee. His fingers lie dangerously close to a sunbeam, but then, he's always played with fire. 

She nods. "Oh, yeah. Dusted."

There should be tears behind her eyes and lead in her heart. She knows this and, yet, feels nothing. Numb, wasted. So not ready to deal, but thankful for a victory she's not sure she entirely expected. 

She watches the others file in and take their seats. Mirth and relief expended on café jokes, they're quieter now, speaking mainly in hushed conversations and muffled whispers. A few glances in her direction, as always, and no one seems surprised to see her sitting with Spike. Guess you get a little break from the mothering and the worried, condescending glances when you've just saved the world. 

Again. 

But what to do now? So much uncertainty. They've won, but they're not quite ready to process the price they've paid. Not the potentials, for whom Sunnydale had been death row, nor the Scoobies for whom it had been their only home. Certainly not Xander, whose wounded face and vacant eyes hint at the loss of his very soul. It's the second time in Buffy's life that she's been homeless, but she's never before had no home to go back to.

Buffy drops her gaze to her lap, catches Spike watching her with soft, cautious eyes, as his fingers gently play over her knee. She can see that he's searching for words but coming up empty-handed. Spike short of words. It should be funny, but it's only sad. She wonders briefly if he can possibly even understand; remembers that he too lost a home amid fire and violence. 

Best not to think of that now, so she turns her attention back to the smudgy vista beyond the dust-laden window. Tries to drown out the business-like discussion between Giles and Willow and Kennedy over directions and plans. It occurs to Buffy that she's no idea where they're headed, or if they're headed anywhere at all. It's nice to let someone else be in charge for a while. 

Finally, the voices fade, and the bus lurches and starts, engine groaning. Just gonna drive then. Get away from here, before the memories and inevitable punch of reality drive them mad. 

"You're wounded..." Spike's voice tugs her gently back to the here and now. 

He's staring at the stain on her shirt with concern, moves his hand from her knee but doesn't quite touch the fabric. 

Huh. Forgotten about that.

Buffy nods. 

"Yeah. Or, I was wounded. But now? Not so much." She lifts the shirt slightly. Her stomach is smattered with blood, but the wound is small and scabby. Funny, how that had worked. Not even slayer healing could usually take care of that kind of injury so fast. 

Mystical healing, eat your heart out. 

"I think, maybe the scythe..."

Her voice fades out, as Spike gently touches the skin around the wound. Cool, dry fingers, expert and gentle. There's a familiar tingle of awareness, and her breath catches in her chest. Apparently satisfied, Spike flattens his palm, begins to run his hand around the sensitive, slightly ticklish skin on her flank. Buffy doesn't move, doesn't even flinch, as he gently tests the skin on her back. Content, he nods and pulls back, hand returning to her knee. 

Buffy can feel the trail of his fingers long after they leave. She takes a steadying breath. 

"Not half as bad as it looks, then. And thank God for that. Buggering huge amount of blood from such a little scratch." He smiles, eyes meeting hers, eyebrow raised a little. "Enough of the stuff to make a bloke hungry."

Buffy snorts out a laugh, rolls her eyes. "Okay, eww."

He smiles in return. "Can always get a grin." 

The moment's broken, but in the crowded bus and under so many gazes, the drop in intimacy is kind of a relief. She's not sure she's ready for intimate public touching yet, although the hand clasps and gentle, comforting gestures she welcomes with ease. 

Let the others think what they like. 

"So, pet, given I can't look out the window, wanna tell me where we're headed?"

She shakes her head. "I really have no idea." A pause, and then she moves her hand back on top of his, and catches his gaze with her own. "But I'm glad you're along for the ride."


	2. Chapter 2

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CHAPTER 2

First stop is the hospital, the first one they find after a half hour's drive south. It's a chaotic flurry of unloading of the wounded amongst the buzz of medics and interns and some waiting media. Buffy ignores them, hopes the others will too, then witnesses Faith all but carrying Andrew past the line of cameramen and smartly-dressed journalists. Buffy's never appreciated her more. 

Standing in the emergency waiting room, she watches as Giles speaks to a nurse, a doctor and then a police officer. 

"Landslide of some kind," she can hear Giles saying. "I just appropriated the school bus and got the children out of there." 

She wonders offhand how the authorities are explaining this one. Earthquake? Mudslide? Meteorite strike? Really dodgy construction methods? She'd paid no attention to the radio during the trip, tuned out the radio announcements, lost herself in the hypnotic sameness of the passing scenery. Tried not to think too hard about anything

Eventually, the police look satisfied. She gives her name, her address. Former address. Hopes there'll be no more questions, at least not until everyone is cared for. Until they have time to formulate a story. Until her life, and theirs, again becomes a lie. 

Once the injured are cared for, Giles uses the hospital phone to try to find them a place to rest. The hospital directs them to nearby colleges, a town hall, some hotels offering cheap rates, but mainly emergency evacuation centers. Kennedy snorts in disgust at the thought of any of them, and Giles announces that he'd much prefer a hotel, whatever the cost. 

"I thought Council went kaboom?" Buffy had asked with concern when he'd pulled out a Council credit card. 

"Travers and headquarters may be gone, but there are...cells. And the finances are still active. I've seen to that." 

"Oh." A beat. "So you get to buy anything now?"

"Anything within reason."

"Neat."

Watching him on the phone now, Buffy supposes it's a good thing Giles has control of their finances and that he's finally in control of the Council too. It should be a real "yay Giles" moment. But she can't really summon that inner cheerleader. Still, she does kind of smile at the realisation that she cared more about the possibility of the card bouncing than about the absence of the Council. Probably not exactly a good thing, but she's saved the world, she's entitled to a small amount of inappropriately callous relief. 

Giles, by contrast, is growing increasingly frustrated, his brow and eyebrows knit. Finally, he slams the phone down with barely contained anger. 

"Profiteering in a time of emergency. Honestly, some people have no sense of dignity." 

Buffy draws a breath, meets his eyes. "Giles, I know where we can go. Angel has a hotel."

"Buffy..."

"I know." Voice firm, decisive. Decision-making Buffy being rational. "I know there are problems, but he would put us up, at least for a little while."

A long pause, and finally Giles nods. "Yes, I imagine he could. And would. But we need someplace close, for tonight anyway. We'll look into it in the morning. But tonight we'll have to make do with a two star motel at five star rates."

It's a good point, and actually something of a relief. She shrugs and glances at her blackened fingernails and bloodied clothing. 

"Well, as long as it's got a bath and hot water, I'm good." 

*****************

It's a clever creature, cunning and ruthless, but deprived of language. It thinks in pictures and emotions, dreams only of violence and blood. Still, it had understood all too well the sensation of burning, of being consumed by some artificial sun. It remembers screaming as it clutched the burning, shiny amulet that had seared itself into the skin of its hand, as the world twisted and glowed around it and it dissolved into ashes and cinder.

Dying, the part of its mind that had contemplated the future had expected to wake to more heat, back in the fires of the world from which it came. But it begins to realise now that it was probably mistaken. The surface beneath its hands is cool where it should be hot, hard, and shiny instead of loose and rough. The light bright and white. Too bright. But it burns only the eyes, and it clenches its eyes shut in response. 

A fighter, its first instinct is to fight, to stand and roar and search for something to kill. But instinct tells it, just this once, to lie still. It closes one hand into a fist. Everything is working; everything feels good. It feels good. 

Good, except for the sudden, stinging pain in its flank. 

Trembling, growling, it feels the tingle of numbness spread from the wound. Can smell, now, the intoxicating scent of approaching humans, rough on its newly awakened senses. 

It realises it's hungry. 

A hunter, it waits until they are close enough, then moves too fast to see. 

A few moments later, and the pristine Wolfram & Hart White Room is no longer quite so white.

****************

"Check it out! Tack-o-rama," Xander whistles, as Giles finally pulls the bus to a halt in the garage of the only available accommodation that wasn't an emergency shelter. 

It's not the most attractive building. Pastel blue paint chipping off railings, concrete cracked. Its flashing sign advertising "cable television" and little else is dwarfed beneath the shadow of the neighboring fast food chain logo, which teeters on a towering pole and is likely visible for miles around. Giles still finds such constant advertising disconcerting, if slightly exotic. Could always tell American towns by the fast food signs and England by the steeples. 

"Could be worse," Vi says from somewhere behind him. "I don't see any "by-the-hour" rate signs." 

Giles decides not to dwell too long on the obvious disappointment in the girl's voice. 

Faith snorts as only Faith can. "Probably only 'cause it takes two hours to drive here. May as well pay for the whole night after that."

Funny how the conversation is easier now that the bus is emptier, filled only with those whom he hadn't been able to convince the hospital to take: Buffy, Dawn and Willow, who are all holding up surprisingly well given the circumstances. Xander is talking again with a manic energy that speaks of over-compensation. Grief was funny like that, and Giles knows the boy will fall hard soon. Then Andrew, who has seemingly sunk into a state of disturbing, if blessedly quiet, shock and Kennedy, Vi, Chao-Ahn and a handful of others whose names escape him. 

And, of course, Spike.

Spike, whose ridiculously garish amulet had apparently saved them all. Who had, according to Buffy, been willing to die himself should the occasion have called for it. Who now sits quietly in the back as the others file off the bus, trapped by exhaustion and lack of a security blanket. Despite everything, it's gratifying. The Watcher in him appreciates it when the vamp is contained. Imprisoned. Safe. 

But after a moment, Giles is compelled to play nice. 

"I'll send someone for you when we organise some rooms." 

"Yeah, whatever," Spike shrugs. And then, "But make sure I get one to myself. Not sharing with the whelp or Andrea there. Probably wets the bed."

All Giles can think to do is roll his eyes. 

Truth is, he's still not fully sure how much of Buffy's story he's ready to accept, or how much more of the story he really wants to know. They're safe, the world is still spinning, and he and he hadn't even been knocked unconscious. A satisfactory result all around. At least, accept for the lingering sense of loss, the memory of a flashing smile and tinkering coinage, abrupt speech and a ludicrous fear of rabbits. It's easily suppressed, stored someplace safe until he can spare a bottle of whiskey and a couple of good hours of blissful unconsciousness.

A sigh, and Giles pushes himself out of the driver's seat and off the bus. The air outside is vaguely dusty. The cars in the parking lot are laden with possessions. Suitcases, furniture, whatever. Relics of lives abandoned. 

He pays the elderly clerk using credit, notices that Buffy shuffles nervously as the clerk slides his Visa through the machine. Probably still expecting it to bounce. He's tried to explain to her that her money issues are over, but she doesn't quite believe him, is probably hesitant to start accepting Council cash anyway. 

"And then they'll own me," she'd concluded, when he'd offered to try and negotiate a salary. 

That they would have. Before. But no longer. Giles, directionless for so long, now has real plans for the future - to build a new Council, one with significantly less emphasis on byzantine relations and over-catered afternoons teas. He'd already mentally drawn up plans to start paying the Slayers, Buffy and Faith. That'll take some reconsideration now. 

"So, how we gonna do this?" Dawn asks as Giles collects the keys. Cards, of course. He knows it's old-fashioned, but every so often he misses the metal ones. 

He holds the cards out, and his gaze lingers on the girl where she stands next to her sister. Taller than Buffy already and proving herself quick and clever. No doubt she'll be college-bound in a couple of years. He's determined to find some money for Dawn too, even if he has to rationalize it on the basis that Buffy will tear herself to shreds if she can't pay for Brown.

"I think the girls are old enough to sort themselves out. Three or four to a room." It's probably a somewhat optimistic assumption, but given they had just saved the whole world, a positive outlook is probably acceptable. 

Willow snatches the cards easily. "It'll be kind of like summer camp, only, well, democratic."

Buffy raises an eyebrow. "You never went to summer camp, Will."

"I've seen all the movies!" 

"What about Xander?" Dawn interrupts softly, her eyes slightly watery. "I don't think he should be alone...and Andrew..."

Giles follows her gaze to where Xander leans against the side of the bus. He apparently feels their gaze on him, smiles and waves. Begins a jaunty walk toward where the others are gathered, probably ready to throw a few quips at Andrew or Kennedy. Typically Xander, or it would have been four years ago. But in comparison to the man Giles has known these last few years, the over-compensation is obvious. 

"He can stay with me," Giles answers. Sharing isn't his first choice, but Dawn's right. Xander and alone at this time would probably result in an empty mini-bar and a morning of the man being unable to do anything but vomit his guts up in an unsanitary bathroom. 

"No," Willow shakes her head. "I know...I know what he's going through. I can look after him."

Giles is tempted to breathe a sigh of relief. Instead, he gives a slight nod, as does Buffy, and Willow hands Dawn a card and heads off toward the girls. 

Giles watches as Dawn shuffles her feet for a moment, too, caught between Willow and Buffy. Then, suddenly, she gives her sister her card. 

"No offence, Buff, but I'm too jazzed to sleep tonight, and you're so gonna just go to bed and yell at me for having the TV on. I'm gonna go stay with Rona and Vi." 

Buffy looks stunned. "Huh?"

Dawn grins at Buffy. It's a look that roundly says she thinks her big sister is a total idiot. 

"Look after Spike," she whispers in a hushed voice that Giles is obviously not meant to hear. 

He barely manages to refrain from rolling his eyes as Dawn winks, then chases after Willow, long legs covering the distance in seconds, loose brown hair trailing behind her. Honestly, he sometimes wonders if everyone under twenty assumes that middle age equals deafness and blindness. 

There's silence now, as Buffy fingers the card absently. Giles ponders what to say, pinches the bridge of his nose, and realizes his reading glasses are still sitting in a hotel room in Sunnydale. Or, more likely, crushed to smithereens in the remains of one. It's a frightfully annoying nervous habit, but he really wishes he had something to clean. 

"Buffy, we need to talk," he says finally. 

She nods, eyes on the card in her fingers as she turns it over distractedly. "I know." 

"I mean it, Buffy. I need to know what happened. What happened to Spike and the amulet, and I'm sorry, but 'it turned to glowy yellow light' doesn't help much."

"I don't know what else I can tell you."

"Buffy..."

She raises her eyes at the tone of his voice, fixes him with the Slayer glare that's been missing these past couple of hours. "I know, Giles. And I'll talk to you soon, I will. But now...now I'm going to go see how Xander is and make some phone calls. I need to..." She shakes her head, takes a breath. "I need to let Angel know we're okay. And call Dad. Organize stuff. So, not now. But soon."

She's businesslike, voice emotionless. But as she speaks, her gaze wanders to the bus before she drags it back again. Giles watches in discomfort. 

It's always about Spike, these days. In one way or another. He'd wormed himself into their group, their side, even Buffy's heart. Now apparently he's even saved the world. Again. It's almost too much, and Giles is sure if he thinks about it any longer he'll feel the need to smash his head against something hard and coma-inducing. 

Finally Giles sighs, considers for a moment, makes a decision. Reaching out, he takes hold of her hand and exchanges the keys. 

"Go and make some calls in my room. It'll be quiet. I'll be there in a little while." Buffy begins to protest, but he cuts her off, holds the key to her room up. "I'll have someone give this to Spike."

He hopes she understands his concession and what it's cost him. The flash of appreciation, the even light in her eyes tells him she has. 

"Thank you," she says with a smile. 

Giles nods. Good to see her smile, a consolation of sorts. But what price, he wonders, can be put on happiness?

*****************

"What the fuck is that?"

Suavely dressed or not, Gunn still has that down-to-earth talent for getting straight to the point. It's something Wes appreciates about the man, even if his tendency to take things on face value occasionally drives the former Watcher to distraction. 

"It's a Turok Han," Wes explains. 

Gunn shoots him a puzzled look, reflected off the glass. "A what now?"

"A primal vampire, the demon in its purest form. A very dangerous creature indeed."

"And it's here because?"

Well, that's the question, isn't it? 

Wes had been pondering that most of the morning, and he's sure another half a dozen employees in various other recesses of the company office are doing the same. How gratifying and irritating to be in charge again; gratifying to have the resources, irritating because he has to rely on the likely evil employees of a definitely evil law firm to use them. 

"I have no idea. It simply appeared in the White Room, clutching some kind of amulet. I've sent it down to the lab to be analysed. The amulet, that is. Meanwhile, we have this amazing creature to observe."

"Yeah." Gunn sounds less than impressed. 

Behind the glass, the Turok Han paces slowly within its confines, meticulously examining the room. It has learned with surprising speed that snarling and clawing at the door would get it nowhere. 

"I ever told you how much you really need a life, man?"

"Many times. It's hardly necessary that I answer. " 

Gunn shifts beside him, maybe nerves, but more likely sheer boredom. "So, you called me up here to look at Encino Man, here?"

"Well, actually, yes."

Just once, Wes would like someone at Angel Investigations to share his fascination for the unusual. Well, someone who wasn't Fred, because even now, too much contact with her was somewhat uncomfortable. 

"Right. Well, I've looked. Thanks. I'm off to kick at something that can fight back..."

Gunn turns to leave, but Wes places a firm hand on the sleeve of his suit. Expensive suit, well-tailored, and soft beneath his hand. Just like Gunn seems to prefer these days. The thought causes another little wave of concern to ripple down Wes' spine, but he ignores it. There are bigger concerns now than Gunn's apparent seduction by the temptations of consumer therapy. 

"Gunn, this creature killed three contractors from Special Projects and four Feral security guards before being subdued..." Wes voice fades out slowly, and he shakes his head. "If it had gotten loose, imagine what would have happened."

"The Beast, Mark II?"

"Maybe. Yes. And if we don't find out why it's here, then we may well be looking at something even worse."

**********************

They are off the bus and out the door in seconds. Even Buffy flashes him only a brief smile before rushing after Giles. Not that he can blame them. The bus stinks of sweat and blood and unwashed masses. 

Alone at last, Spike gingerly touches the fabric of his shirt where the amulet had lain against his chest. The material is crinkled, whatever it was having melted into something that vaguely resembles the texture of cardboard. Lovely. It comes away from his skin with only a slight stinging pull, and he lifts the hem up to reveal raw, red skin. 

Not too bad. Could be worse. That twinkety-thing could have burnt him right up, and wouldn't that have been an embarrassing end? Death by fashion excess. Can't rightly recall now what he'd been thinking at the time, except that suddenly the idea of a romantic death had seemed attractive. Necessary. The right thing to do. Been ready to die for love, go out fighting, save the world...

Except he was still alive, wasn't he? Or close to it. And the world was still going round, and Buffy was smiling at him and letting him touch her. So why the strange feeling of loss and disappointment? 

Sometimes he thinks the soul really is more trouble than it's worth. 

He notices that the skin on his hands is blistered and flaming, much worse than that on his chest. Buggering sun. He hopes the next Hellmouth is someplace a little cloudier. 

And then it hits him that Sunnydale's gone. Disintegrated. Crumbled into pieces and sunk into the depths of hell. The Summers' house, crypt, Willy's, the goddamn mansion and everything else with it. 

Spike examines his feelings. Can't decide how he feels, or even what he should feel. Be right to be upset, wouldn't it? Home sweet home, or the closest he's come to it in quite a while. Maybe the closest to home since they'd left Romania to follow Darla half way across the world. He thinks he'd probably been happy before that, snacking on dark-haired beauties, living in a land drenched with magic and danger. Fighting, fucking, feeding. An easy life - fuck, buggering lot of good it's doing havin' thoughts like that. 

Sighing, Spike leans his head back against the wall of the bus. It's still almost cool, despite the stuffy conditions. He tries to block out the memories of his past, concentrates on the chatter of the girls outside. They're dividing into groups, something about rooms and showers and Giles paying with the Council's expense account. Fabulous. He wonders whether he'll be rooming with someone or camping on the bus. Would rather fancy a shower, although he's not all that fussed. Not when the scent of Buffy's blood is still clinging to him. Strong and rich, but no longer unique. 

The air is heavy with the power of slayers tonight. Gonna take getting use to, that. 

"Hey, Evil-and-Unfortunately-Not-Properly Dead." 

Spike jumps slightly at the voice, looks up to see Kennedy climb onto the bus. Annoying bint, and he sometimes wonders how she ended up with Red. Tempted to think it's 'cause she's easy on the eyes. Or maybe it's got something to do with the tongue ring. That's just full of possibilities. 

"Catch." She throws him a blanket and then a plastic card, and it gives him a warm inner glow of pure glee that she looks impressed at the ease of his catch. "Courtesy of Giles, who still thinks you're useful. Room thirty-five. I'm sure you can find it without burning to a cinder."

"Thanks for your concern."

"Whatever."

From his seated position, he flashes her a charming smile he knows will only piss her off, then watches with amusement as she turns tail and leaves. Probably rushing back to her little redhead matchstick. 

Whatever, indeed. 

A sigh, and Spike pulls himself to his feet, then throws the blanket over his head. Face down, he makes a dash for the hotel, blinking furiously in the bright light. Disturbingly familiar, this, a vivid reminder of the days when he used to make mid-day dashes from sewer grate to Summers' doorstep, hoping to catch a few minutes with Buffy. Or a few hours. He'd known he'd looked bloody ridiculous at the time, probably been laughs a plenty at Willy's 'cause the whole thing was absurd. But then, he'd never had a whole lot of dignity where women were concerned. 

Outside, the scent of Sunnydale everywhere, and the glare of the Californian sunset is a little foggy, like a picture through an unfocused camera. A hint at an end of the world that didn't quite come to pass. 

A kid grins and giggles at him from the door to one of the rooms as he passes. He can't help but flash a little fang. The resulting screech is deeply satisfying. Still got it. Just choosing to stop at the bark. 

Spike find his room without much trouble, slides the key through the lock, and enters with a relief that even the nauseating pastel color scheme doesn't undermine. A moment's glance at the bed, and he carelessly begins to undress. A bath, warm water, and absolutely no underaged-slayers. Maybe he really is in heaven. 

******************


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3  
  
TITLE: Choices (3/?)  
  
AUTHOR: OneTwoMany (Sabre)  
  
SUMMARY: I'll think of something clever to write here eventually...in the meantime, I changed Chosen a little and went from there.  
  
RATING: R  
  
DEDICATION: Monanotlisa and Scarlettfish.  
  
THANKS TO: Alanna, LadyAnne and Hesadevil, who all rock.   
  
FEEDBACK: onetwomany@bigpond.com  
  
PREVIOUS PARTS: This is the R version of this chapter. The NC-17 version is available on my website (www.orchestratedchaos.net). If you read it there, you warrant that it is legal for you to do so where you live. Really, you're not missing out on that much :)  
  
*********************  
  
"Yes Dad. Yes. Really. I'm fine. We're both fine. Uh-uh...."  
  
Buffy twirls the phone cord around her fingers and tries to keep her voice even. Dealing with her father is never easy, and she's seriously not in the mood tonight. The initial pleasure she felt at hearing his voice - and the relief, nostalgia of sorts, a sense of home - is fading fast. Funny that, how she use to adore him, but now feels little more than that vague, reluctant tolerance you're expected to show relatives with whom you have nothing in common but a handful of genes.   
  
"'m not sure yet. The insurance probably doesn't cover acts of God..."   
  
Or acts of Gods. Or whatever the hell the First Evil was, other than apparently really stupid and not too great in a crisis.   
  
"Yeah, I've got some cash and my ATM cards..."  
  
Money, her dad is talking money, and he's good at that. Sums and numbers and formulae, precise little details. 'Real world stuff,' he calls it, stuff she needs to 'grow up and pay attention to.' Yeah huh. Buffy wants to laugh, cause it's not like she just averted apocalypse number seven or anything. But instead she reads off the policy details that she'd hastily scrawled on scraps of paper that night before the end of the world; house, car, furnishings, their value reduced to a number. Huh, she's a refugee.   
  
"Car registration? Damn...Let me check."  
  
She listens as her Dad promises to talk to the right people, get them fixed up, be a father. That's a definite good, and she reminds herself that he's not a bad man, a little absent minded, maybe, immature and desperately in need of some parenting lessons. But he's moving past the mid-life crisis and he does care for them; for his delinquent daughter with her pyro tendencies and the perfect younger one, who he doesn't really know, hasn't even met. Maybe for Joyce too, although not enough to leave that Mediterranean yacht and come home for her funeral...Oh yeah, there's that anger again, accompanied by resentment and, oh, jealousy too, mainly over ... what's her name? Stupid skanky husband-stealing ho bag...yeah, that'll do.   
  
Buffy's glad of the sudden knock on the door and Giles' soft "Buffy?"  
  
"Gotta go, Dad. Giles wants his phone back....what? Me - and Giles? - Eeew! No, nothing like that. God! Okay, really going now. I'll call you later. Yes, promise! Goodbye, Dad... Okay, going. Really. Bye!"  
  
She slams to phone back into its cradle as Giles struggles through the door, large bags of...something, in hand.   
  
"Willow made me go shopping," he explains in response to her quizzical look. "She is apparently under the delusion that food enough to feed an army can be stored in a hotel mini bar. Presumably she thinks I have a dimensional vortex in the refrigerator..."  
  
"A what?"  
  
"Never mind. Foolish game..."  
  
Buffy watches as he makes his way to the minibar and starts pulling out alcohol to pile in milk and juice, food enough to feed an army, which is actually appropriate. He pauses to reads a couple of the labels on the microscopic bottles of liquor. She watches, vaguely amused, as he breaks the seal on something yellowy-looking, shrugs, and tosses back a generous mouthful without so much as a grimace.   
  
"Giles, you're a total lush. And definitely a bad example."  
  
He merely raises an eyebrow. "Well, it was almost the end of the world today. I think I've earned a congratulatory drink."  
  
"What is it with British men and alcohol, anyway? Spike's practically a walking brewery..."  
  
She watches Giles stiffen slightly as the name falls from her lips. "Yes. Spike."   
  
He doesn't quite spit the word out with the level of bitter disgust mastered by Xander, but it's hardly dripping with affection. She can already tell he's preparing for another lecture. This is always a sore spot between them, and she can't deal with it now.   
  
"Yeah, and how about that apocalypse aversion, hey? Definitely party time!" She says, quickly. "Take a couple more gulps of that icky -looking yellow stuff!"  
  
Giles glances up from the bottle, stern-face still in place. "Buffy, are you trying to get me pissed as a newt or is this really just a rather unsubtle attempt to avoid talking about Spike?"  
  
"What if I say I just wanted the pretty little bottle?"  
  
"Buffy..."  
  
She shoots him her best Summers Look of Pain. "Please, let's not do this. Not over Spike. Cause, you know, that way only lies an argument that will probably involve you using big words and me storming out and slamming that door. And there are other things I want to discuss instead. Like, what we're gonna do tomorrow. And next week. And...hey, is that chocolate?"  
  
Giles smiles and throws her a bar he removed from the bag. "Willow said you'd like it."  
  
Buffy beams and she tears into the packet. Chocolately goodness. "Willow should always be listened to. Well, except when she's addicted to magic and trying to destroy the world."  
  
"Yes," Giles agrees, voice flat. Another sore-point, and Buffy curses herself. She knows he blames himself for what happened that year, for Willow, for Spike. Giles, too responsible to ever truly accept that everything went back so much further than that.   
  
He continues, "But right now, I don't think Willow is the issue. Or chocolate bars, for that matter. No matter how much you like them. Spike is."  
  
"Giles..."  
  
A raised hand silences her. "No, hear me out. I'm not going to say anything worthy of a door-slam."  
  
He hasn't started taking, but she's sure she's heard it all before. "You know what? If you're gonna lecture me on how he's bad, and evil, and a danger and blahdy blah blah vampirecakes, then I think this is about Willow, 'cause she did the same thing." She knows she's stepping into dangerous territory here, but she's on a roll. "And you're all 'second chances' and 'yay forgiveness' when it comes to her. Not that I'm disagreeing with that, cause, hey, it's Will, and no explanations needed. But if she gets the benefit of the doubt, for stuff she did with a soul, why not Spike, for stuff he did without one?"   
  
A pause, and Giles frowns. Twirls the amber liquid and takes another drink. "Yes, good questions, and ones I can't give you an answer you now - or not an answer that you'll accept, at any rate. But that last part is rather the issue, isn't it? Vampires with souls. As I seem to recall, they're rather easy to misplace."  
  
It's an effort, but Buffy resists the urge to eyeroll. "There's no curse."  
  
The meaning of the phrase clearly isn't lost of Giles; she watches him shift a little uncomfortably. Sex with vampires probably sits somewhere around sex with gerbils on the Watcher decency scale; maybe lower, given the whole evil thing.  
  
"Perhaps not a curse," Giles says slowly. "But there will be a catch. There always is." He pauses again, starts to adjust his non-existent glasses, ends up running his hand through his hair. This probably isn't any easier for him than it is for her. She wishes he'd just stop it.   
  
"I know you think I'm closed-minded. Maybe even bigoted. But how can I not be Buffy? Having seen what I've seen, what I've experienced, courtesy of your...courtesy of 'souled' vampires?"  
  
It's a low blow, and Buffy opens her mouth to reply, but she feels the sharp words evaporate on her tongue. There's nothing more to be said about this, nothing that can be said when she's still so thankful, so very thankful, that she didn't kill Angelus sooner.   
  
For a brief, furious moment, she almost hates Giles for dredging such memories up.   
  
But it passes, and Giles continues. "I don't blame you for that, Buffy. I've made it a rule not to interfere with your private life, and I won't do so now. You and Spike and...whatever it is that you do together, that's not my concern. However, you're a Slayer. It's in your blood, what you are. " He meets her eyes, expression filled with genuine concern. "And, Buffy, I don't want to see you go through what happened with Angelus again. None of us does."  
  
And, God, that's the last thing she wants too. Her greatest fear, to let Spike back in, take him on trust, get hurt again. But she can't think about that now.   
  
"I know that. You can't think that, after all that's happened, I don't know that." And it's not a lie, not really. She's just not entirely sure it's true.  
  
Giles watches her closely, as if searching her soul. Then, finally, he sighs. "Very well." Apparently, reluctantly, that's enough. "Non sequitor conversation: Have you spoken to Dawn about what you want to do now?"  
  
Buffy shakes her head, only too happy to move on. "No."   
  
Truth be told, she hasn't thought beyond the battle for so long now. She'd known they'd win, somewhere deep down, but making plans? That was tempting fate.   
  
"All I've thought about for so long now was last night. Didn't really stop to think what'd happen when the party was over.'  
  
She takes another bite of the chocolate, feels the milky sweetness melt on her tongue. How long has it been since she'd actually taken the time to savor anything? Taste the sweetness of life? God, could she be any more melodramatic?  
  
"I'm returning to England," Giles announces, breaking her thoughts. His tone makes it clear that the decision has been made. It takes a moment for that to sink in, but Buffy finds she's not surprised, maybe not even concerned. Nothing much for him here now, not with a closed Hellmouth and a slayer who doesn't need a teacher...  
  
"And I'd like you to come with me," Giles continues.  
  
Buffy blinks, almost chokes. Okay, that was a surprise.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Buffy, all these girls, running around, directionless. They're dangerous, to themselves and to others. It just won't do. We need something, some structure, a place of calm in the chaos. Not control, but guidance. We need to rebuild the Council."  
  
She's not quite sure what to think, beyond 'Council, bad'. And 'Council go kaboom'. She swirls a piece of chocolate around her mouth, this time barely tasting it, as she contemplates the possibilities.  
  
"Giles, I..."  
  
"I know what you're thinking. But please, hear me out."  
  
And she does. Sitting on the bed, picking the last crumbs of chocolate crumbs off the tinfoil wrapper, she listens to Giles outline his plans for the future. Much to her amazement, she's actually impressed.   
  
*****  
  
An hour or so later, Buffy closes the door to Giles' room with a soft 'click'. She moves down the corridor, before pausing outside the door to Dawn's room. Hand on the handle, she wonders whether it's a good time to talk. She'd expected to hear giggling, the sounds of the television, but it's silent within. The girls probably crashed the minute their gangly bodies hit the crappy polyester sheets. So much for Dawn's plans for a late night.   
  
Some teenagers.  
  
It's mildly disappointing, typical that Dawn would actually crash early on a night when Buffy actually wanted to talk. But she supposes that the big 'London here we come' announcement can wait till tomorrow.   
  
Buffy pauses outside her door too, fingers resting on the warm wood of the door. Kinda scary, this whole thing with her and Spike and doors. Probably metaphoric or something, but she's never been very good with that kinda thing. Still, she remembers standing outside his crypt, tracing the patterns on marble, wondering if he really could feel her as he said he could; denying that she could feel him even though his presence enlivened every nerve in her body. She remembers, too, the look on his face when she'd finally barred him from the house - she's still not sure why she waited so long - and, then, his stunned gratitude when she'd let him back in. Kinda hard to keep thinking of him as evil when he'd thanked her for treating him like a man, and vowed to give his life for her little sister, but she managed to do it. She managed also, much, much later, to throw away potential friendship when she'd thrown him through the rotten wooden door and into that grungy abandoned house. And that, right there, was the point when everything went to hell. From there, they'd just spiralled down the layers.   
  
Taking a deep breath, Buffy twists the door handle, finds it unlocked. Typical of Spike. But then, he probably used to welcome intruders as home delivery.   
  
The room is nearly identical to Giles', except that Spike's clothing, such as it is, is scattered on the floor. Her eyes follow the trail to the bathroom. The shower is running, and she can see tendrils of steam weaving and dancing in the light spilling from the slightly open door. For a second she wonders if he's guess her plans and is being seductive, but figures it's more likely he's just being a slob.   
  
Sitting on the plain quilt on the uncomfortable bed, Buffy begins to pull of her shoes. Apocalypses are hell on footwear. Her fingers trace the outline of leather as she glances toward the bathroom.   
  
"Way to screw up a perfectly good plan, Spike."  
  
She'd expected to find him in bed, probably drinking, 'cause that's what Spike does. She'd come in, sit down, talk. He liked to talk these days, always running his mouth. Softer words, though, more hesitant. And if she's honest, sometimes she misses the old spark. Still, she can work with this, can take that step off the safe, firm ground, into the dark beyond.   
  
She flashes another glance at the door and concentrates on the sound of splashing water; imagines it running over too-pale skin, smooth chest, slim hips. She's fantasising about Spike. Nothing new, but it's been a while she's let herself do that. He'd been so...damaged, when he came back. And whatever they have, they'd been together, was totally wrecked. She'd thought it unsalvageable, and it probably should have been.   
  
But here she is, anyway, waiting for him. More proof that she's screwed up, and probably not in a good way, but right now she cares not a bit. Despite everything he's done to her and her friends, everything she's done to him, as bad as they got, he still fills her stomach with fire. And, God, how she longs to give into that warmth, to let it consume her again.   
  
She'd thought about that fire last night, as they'd lain in together in his basement cot; considered several lame means of seduction. She thinks he probably would have gone with it; she'd certainly felt the evidence of his desire as he'd pressed against her, arms around her and his fingers intertwined with hers. Yet so many moments simply passed, opportunities for kisses missed, hesitant caresses suddenly withdrawn, eyes that said so much suddenly cloaked and dropped. She didn't know where to start, and he...well, who knew what Spike thought anymore, really?  
  
Well, only one way to find out.   
  
With a final glance at the bathroom door, and a determined breath, Buffy pulls her still-bloodied shirt over her head.   
  
************  
  
He can smell her when he turns off the water. Slayer. Buffy. Her presence still makes him tingle.   
  
She's waiting for him. Has to be, no other reason for dallying in his room, is there? Right satisfying that; proves he's earned a little respect. No more waltzing in, dragging him out, yellin' at him to get his arse in gear, and why wasn't he always at her beck and call? He's a little disappointed that she didn't peek, wander in and help herself to the view...  
  
Only then he remembers with a blinding flash; white tiles and raised voices; his fingers tearing at her grey robe as she cried beneath him.   
  
The satisfaction is instantly gone.  
  
What the fuck could he really expect?   
  
Hands on the basin, Spike takes a calming breath; waits for the inevitable rush of nausea to hit him and for the blasted voice of his conscience to start with the rant. But the pain's not as strong as it once was; just a constant low, dull throbbing; chronic it's become, rather than acute, and far easier to ignore. A few more moments, just to be sure he's not going to be hit with a surprise attack of the guilts, and Spike can raise his face to the foggy mirror. It's empty of course, but if movies are anything to go by, that's probably a good thing. Helps not to have to look at yourself.   
  
Helps, too, that the Slayer trusts him again. Holding her, being near her again, he never quite expected that. Not exactly the dream relationship, no white picket fence and moonlight shags, but better than he'd ever dared hope before, and quite the improvement on doin' tricks for treats on command. This time the memory stirs a surprising anger in his stomach, a simmering little sensation of lingering resentment, the likes of which he hadn't felt for quite a while. Or maybe he just hadn't noticed. Whatever e stamps the feeling down, hard, pushes it back to some dark recess where it can simmer in silence. He'll just have to be careful not to get pissed off again, not to say something stupid in a fit of anger, not to push his luck and do anything unforgivable again.  
  
With a shake of his head Spike pushes himself away from the basin and sets about pulling the remaining shreds of confidence and dignity together. It takes a few more seconds, but he accomplishes a passable façade.   
  
"'s fine." He says softly. "Not perfect, can live what she offers. Work with it, anyhow..."  
  
Still may as well give her a taste of what she's missing. He pulls the towel around his hips and settles it low. He's no choice but to wear nearly his birthday suit, not with his kit scattered all other the bedroom floor within view of her blushing eyes. Not even gonna try to feel bad about that.   
  
Determinedly, Spike plasters on his on his best smirk as he pushes open the door. "Shoulda just come and gotten me, luv. Ain't nothing you haven't...seen."  
  
The door opens, and his last word comes out as a squeak. He's almost afraid to blink, lest the vision before him vanish, because he's sure it can't be real. Finally lost those few remaining marbles. Cause he can't really be seeing a beautiful, naked Slayer in his bed, skin gold against the quilt cover, breasts bare, just the curve of a slender leg hiding Heaven. He feels the blood run south, and his brain melts.   
  
Can. Not. Be. Real.   
  
He's not sure how long he's been standing there, but he's suddenly aware of the thunderous beating of her heart, its tempo pounding and rushing; blood throbbing through her beneath flushed skin. She squirms a little, and with a Herculean effort, he forces his eyes to her face. Her look is strangely vulnerable, nervous, like she's ready to vault.   
  
"Buffy? I um..." Fuck, was that his voice? He'd clearly lost all motor control when the blood rushed south. "I think, maybe, you wandered into the wrong room pet." Probably about the bloody stupidest thing he could've said, but he's sure there's no blood left in his brain.   
  
Buffy suddenly looks terrified. "Okay, maybe not such a good idea..." she stammers. He half expects her to realise she's made just that mistake and drag the sheets around herself at any moment. Yet her hands stay still, white where her fingers grip the sheets, but making no move to raise them. Then her breasts rise as she takes an audible breath. "But it's no mistake," she says firmly, and he's not sure whether she's talking to him, or to herself.   
  
"No?"  
  
"No." She says calmly. "No mistake." He can see her drawing back confidence as she speaks, that self-assurance that takes his breath away. "And before you start with honourable defensiveness stuff - which really doesn't look that great on you, by the way: I'm not drunk, not stoned, not depressed, not possessed, no longer fearing the imminent passing of the world, and definitely not just seeking a last comfort shag or a way to pass the time till the next apocalypse. I'm just me. Total, one hundred percent unadulterated Buffy."   
  
"Ready and willing and waiting..." he murmurs, transfixed.   
  
His feet take an involuntary step toward the bed; the bed with the naked Slayer. They are tentative steps, like he's walking on fire, waiting for the hot coals to scorch. Any time now, that irritating little voice inside him will start up again; the one that'll tell him this is wrong, that she's mad, that he can't do this; that's it all wrong.   
  
But there's nothing but silence.   
  
The tingle in his groin is suddenly an ache, and he's not sure whether he'd be able to stop this anyway. Kinda hard to take the high road with a massive hard-on tenting your towel.   
  
Buffy shoots him a coquettish look that instantly fizzles and evaporates the last shred of his willpower. "Spike, I'm tired of being proper, and waiting, and sticking to rules and everything else. So get that scrawny ass over here and ... ompf"  
  
Her breath is cut off as he leaps, lands on her, pins her wrists to the mattress and presses his body against her, skin on skin. He's had it with goddamn fucking rules, too. She wants him, and it's enough. No, who's he kiddin'? It's more than enough.  
  
The effect of the contact is explosive; that ever-present chemistry leaping and buzzing between them, sending searing-hot flashes of pleasure through his body. He's sure his heart contracts even as his body convulses, every inch of him longing for contact with warm, soft Buffy. He feels his cock grow incredibly, painfully hard.   
  
And he'd thought the other type of touching was good!   
  
Their gazes lock, arms grappling, bodies held together with supernatural strength. Her eyes are saucer-wide, and he feels himself drowning. Unable to resist, he leans over and licks a path from shoulder to ear, lapping at the salty trail of sweat. She shudders beneath him, hands clenching beneath his grasp.   
  
"I dunno what's come over you lately, Slayer," he whispers into her ear. "But I like it."  
  
"Yeah. So do I."  
  
*******  
  
"Thank you..." he says simply, sometime later, when nothing else seems appropriate.   
  
She smiles softly, then runs her fingers down his flank, along the side of his thigh. "Well, wasn't exactly a chore. 'Sides, my seduction, so I think I should be thanking you for going along with it."  
  
"Well, when you put it that way..." He smirks, almost Cheshire cat. "Takes a lot to make you smile. Know that. So I think I deserve to feel right good about myself, yeah."  
  
And, yeah, he does feel good about himself. Saving the world, getting the girl, shagging her senseless, actually makin' her smile. All in a day's work for the new, improved Spike.   
  
"Wanna feel even better?" She asks, placing a kiss on the sensitive hollow of his neck and her hand moves south.   
  
He recognises a distraction technique when he sees one. She's not in the mood for seriousness, and times like this, trying to have a conversation with her could be a bit like playing chicken with a flame thrower. But then he's never gone for safe.   
  
"In a bit..." He says, and she frowns, fingers hesitating in their caress. She doesn't fancy compromise, his slayer.   
  
Spike grinds his teeth and briefly considers whether that makes him feel guilty or annoyed. He has the same emotions as always now, but sometimes it's harder to recognise them. The soul certainly added a degree of unpredictability to his life.   
  
"I don't just mean thanks for this, although, yeah, it's a big part of it," he says. "More: thank you for trusting me again. Didn't think...well, wasn't holding my breath for you to ever let me near you again. Metaphorically speaking."  
  
She shrugs. "Neither was I. And not just because of what you did to me, although that was a big part of it. But we were just badness together."  
  
  
  
And he's no problem recognising the emotion that follows those words. Shame, burning in his stomach, a bitter taste in his throat and lead in his heart. "Shouldn't be makin' excuses for me, luv."  
  
  
  
"No, I probably shouldn't. And you probably shouldn't forgive me, either. We probably all shouldn't do a lot of things..." She shakes her head. "But everything was so fucked up last year, and we've both changed and...God, Spike, you've changed so much. And screwed up or not, I still want you. So I'm gonna stop making excuses and start doing what I want to do a bit more, rather than what I should. Live for the moment, you know?"   
  
He nods. There's truth in her words, hidden amongst the confusion, and he can feel that annoying little bubble of hope begin to swell inside him. "And when we leave this room, close that door behind us. What happens then?"   
  
She drops her gaze, hair falling over her face. Now that's the Buffy he knows only too well, evasive and reticent and beholden to her friends. Except that she surprises him once more. "I'm not hiding you -us, if that's what you're asking. Wouldn't do that again."  
  
The bubble nearly bursts. "Bloody right," he says, with far more confidence than he feels. "Sick of that crap. Not gonna let you." He knows he couldn't live like that again; a fellow had to have a sense of self-preservation, if not a shred of dignity.   
  
Her fingers find his again, and she grasps his hand, her other hand tracing, drawing his gaze to hers. "Good. And Spike - don't. Let me."  
  
  
  
"Not a chance." He nods. "And, after we've strolled outta here, hand in hand, smiled at Droopy Boy and the Watcher?"  
  
"We get on the bus, go to LA. Giles has tickets for us all, and most of the girls have passports. We're flying outta here."  
  
"Right." He should be happy, but Spike wonders when this was decided. Last night? Today? When he was in the shower? He struggles against another burst of that mercurial emotion, the sudden wave of resentment that no one thought to ask him. "You all off someplace?"  
  
"London," she answers, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Giles wants me to come 'home' with him. Restart the Council, maybe..."  
  
"Bunch of wankers, better off without 'em..." he says in disbelief. Maybe it's not the best time for thinkin', but he can hardly believe that Buffy, barely free from the blighters, would want them back again.   
  
"I was going to say 'the Council, or something like it.' Different, somehow. Fewer stuffy old men giving orders from above, more democracy. Better pay."  
  
"And your part in this will be...?"  
  
"I think the term was 'consultant.' Means I get paid to advise and stuff. Maybe even help train. It sounds fun, and useful, and Giles says I can go back to school and they'll foot the bill. Or he will really, cause he has all the money now. I mean, how great is that? And I get away from here for a while. Away from all this. Time for a change. Never even been out of California, you know."  
  
He nods, forces out words that stick in his throat. "Right. That's good..."  
  
Buffy frowns slightly. "You don't like the idea?"  
  
"No! I..." It's good news, he tells himself firmly. Slayer'll get an education, get a decent job, get out of this life. He should be right happy. But his heart feels like lead. "Oh, fuck it. No, it's not all right. Bloody unacceptable. When was this decided anyway? Takin' off, half-way 'round the world. No way to carry on anything..."  
  
His voice fades as he watches her expression change from confusion to surprise.   
  
"You don't want to come to London? With me?" She asks, her voice small and hurt.   
  
He blinks. Wonders if maybe he misheard. "That an invitation?"   
  
"Of course it is..." And then she laughs. "Oh my God, you thought I'd...? That I wouldn't take you with me? After that?"  
  
"Never know what to think with you..." he says honestly.   
  
She rolls her eyes dramatically, then leans over and kisses him so deeply he's left with no doubt about her intentions. "Spike, I hadn't even thought of going without you." And pause, then, "provided you, um, want to come..."  
  
He laughs briefly, then summons as much false dignity as he can. "Have to think about that. Thinkin' I might need incitement, something to make it worthwhile."   
  
She grins, rises to the bait. "How about some persuasion?" Her eyes are still bright and happy, almost gleeful for once, as she moves her hands lower to trace the contours of his rapidly hardening cock, to stroke his balls.   
  
He groans, then smirks, and makes a show of lying back, hands behind his head.   
  
"Okay, Slayer, give it your best shot and I'll give the proposition my full consideration, yeah?"  
  
It's hours before it occurs to him that she never really doubted he'd follow. 


	4. Chapter 4a

TITLE: Choices (4a/?)  
AUTHOR: OneTwoMany (Sabre)  
SUMMARY: I'll think of something clever to write here eventually...in the meantime, I changed _Chosen_ a little and went from there.  
RATING: R

THANKS TO: Glasslipper for this chapter; Alanna, hesadevil, Juliaabra, LadyAnne and 

FEEDBACK: onetwomany@bigpond.com

PREVIOUS PARTS: This is the R version of this chapter. The NC-17 version is available on my website (www.orchestratedchaos.net). If you read it there, you warrant that it is legal for you to do so where you live. Really, you're not missing out on that much :)

Dawn had forgotten to pack her favorite red shirt.

It's such a dumb thing to worry about. Stupid red shirt, cheap like everything Buffy bought her, easily replaced. But Dawn knows she'll miss it. Nothing else would ever be the first thing Buffy bought her with the scarce leftovers of her DoubleMeat paycheck, or the most memorable thing she was wearing when Brad Tabala had told her she looked "fucking-A". And nothing went quite as well with her bootleg Levis, a Christmas present from Anya, who so rarely gave presents, let alone ones she'd actually wanted to receive.

Anya. Shit. 

How was it possible to feel so horrible over someone you really didn't even much like? To feel heavy and sick at the memory of Anya, who made stupid comments, back-stabbed Buffy and worked Dawn like a slave after the whole shoplifting thing and spent a thousand years doing gross stuff to men like Xander and still didn't feel even a little bit sorry for it. 

Anya, who actually looked good in hot pants, and wore them with rollerskates and looked just like Farah Fawcett. Who'd helped her plot revenge against Evil Kirsty, high school nemesis from Hell, as they'd worked through the stocktake. 

Anya, who made Xander so very happy – least, before he walked out on her, 'cause then he kind of deserved to be miserable. 

Miserable like he was now. 

And so come the waterworks. Not torrents of tears overflowing, not yet, but water lines her cheeks, and she can't hold in a soft, painful sob. She thinks she might cry for real, soon. Maybe she even wants to. But she can't do so here, amongst strangers, girls who'd see it as weakness. Blubbering from the average one who didn't really belong. 

She needs to be elsewhere. Now. 

Quietly, Dawn sits up, careful not to disturb Vi where she lies on the bed next to her, snoring softly. She's gotten so used to that, moving around as silent as a mouse, trying not to get in anyone's way or disturb anything important. Anyone important. Anyone else. 

She doesn't bother with a jacket, and finds she doesn't need one. It's hot outside, and quiet, the air thick and oppressive with dust. Little bits of Sunnydale, she realizes, flittering through the sky, coating her clothes, burying themselves in her lungs. She wonders if they used to be part of something important; thinks, then, that they more likely were than weren't. Everything's important when it's your home. 

Or maybe nothing's important, except your family? That was what you were meant to think in a situation like this, right? She has the people she loves, her family, or most of them. 

Better than some silly red shirt. 

One pink-painted toe-nail sketches patterns in the dirty pavement; the skin on her feet is probably already black from the soiled surface. She'd have to have another shower and wash more mess away, but right now she likes that Sunnydale still clings to her. 

Another glance at the closed door to her room, and Dawn wonders what had possessed her that she'd wanted to spend the night with those girls. Excitement, probably. But the adrenaline and relief have long since worn off, and the idea of a party, or chatter, of celebrating the destruction of the only home she's ever known is suddenly nauseating. 

Not thinking, just instinct, Dawn staggers over to the garden, and quietly throws up. 

It seems an age until dizzy, spent, she stumbles away from her mess, and collapses onto the concrete. The world's still spinning, her ears are buzzing like an orchestra of drunken crickets. Weird, the sky's so murky she can't see the stars. She takes deep breaths until she thinks she's right to stand again.

A handful of ice from the ice machine deadens her mouth, takes away the bitter taste of vomit. Another handful, larger, feels good against her back, rivulets of ice water trailing down her heated skin. Her feet leave muddy imprints where they touch the dripped liquid. 

Family, she reminds herself when she can think again. Family is what's important. But where can she go, on a night such as this, to be with her family?

She wants, first, to talk to Xander, because he'd understand. He'd say something honest, and sensible, and she'd break into a smile and all would be well. Except that Xander'd just lost Anya, who surely meant more to him than her. And what could Dawn say to him about that? How could she possibly pretend to understand? "I lost my mom, I know what you're going through, come let me talk to you because I'm too self-centered and needy to be alone?" 

Besides, Xander has Willow, now, his oldest friend. His older friend, an adult who'd understand these things so much better than she. Willow knows all about death, after all, and they've shared so much besides. They wouldn't want her intruding, with her big mouth and her whininess and her stupid neediness; the little sister who'd just be an nuisance that they'd have to be nice too, another burden to share their stretched sympathies with. No, Xander would have no words of comfort and spare, brown-eyed smiles for her, not when he was breaking himself. 

So she longs, instead, for Buffy. But when she makes it to her sister's door, legs still slightly shaky, she remembers that she'd given her sister away, too. To Spike. Standing outside, she can hear them inside, soft sounds of sex; a moan, Spike's honey-coated voice. She turns away quickly, because it's way too ewwy to listen to your sister screw, but her heart is heavy and she can't quite make herself feel happy for her sister, no matter how much Buffy wanted this. 

Lost, Dawn returns to sit outside her room, rests her head on her knees, and, finally, lets the water flow freely. Safe in the knowledge that no one can see; that she is so very much alone. 

***********

Buffy'd held Spike's hand as they'd left the safety of the hotel bedroom. Or he'd held hers, firmly, in an almost possessive way that'd kind of pissed her off even as it sent tingles rushing up her arm and down, to other places. They'd made only the front porch before he'd realized the sun would put a dint in their triumphant parade. Smiling, she'd left him to make his own way to the bus, sheet draped over his head, swear words flying from his mouth. 

So much for the afterglow, but it was an accepted part of their relationship now to piss each other off just as much as they got each other off. 

Funny, though, how they'd both expected a commotion; condemnation from Giles, and Xander. Insults, maybe a fight. She'd been dreading it, working on words, excuses, all night – or, at least, those times of night when she had been able to think. He, she was sure, had been looking forward to it, probably thinking on quite different responses. But if anyone had an objection to her and Spike, no one voiced it. Xander had merely glowered a little, but held his tongue. Dawn, pale and slightly wan despite her early night, smiled a thin-lipped smile that made Spike stand that little bit taller. Willow was too busy making up lost time with Kennedy, kissing her passionately against the side of the bus after a argument of hushed whispers that left little doubt that Kennedy was less than impressed with having been abandoned on their first big night of freedom. The girls whispered hushed words behind cupped hands, but who they were talking about was no concern of Buffy's. 

Only Faith, observant as ever, had decided to take a stab at such a vulnerable target.

"I see I wasn't the only one to get a little bump and grind action last night," she'd said, eyes dancing with amusement and that subtle, taunting humor that infected even her attempts at being sympathetic. 

"Not sure how that's your business," Buffy had said, defensive as ever. 

"Hey! Woha! Backing up, hands in the air, B. Not looking for a fight. Just here to say goodbye."

That had surprised her, but only a little. "You're off? Where?"

"Cleveland. Sounds fun, eh? I'm sure it's just as much funky fun as it looks on Drew Carey..."

That Faith would be so eager to get back to work seemed strange, almost obscene. Faith, being all responsible. Huh. End of the World, indeed. "But you just saved the world!"

Another saucy grin. "No rest for the wicked. 'Sides, there are still warrants out for my arrest here. Figure it's better to go where cops aren't quite as familiar with my sexy mug until your Watcherman sorts stuff out. Go north, lay low, leave bed to kill things. Sounds like my kinda living."

Buffy nods, slowly. "And Robin?"

"He's comin' with."

"Good. I'm glad. Surprised. But, happy for you." Funny, how these things turn out. 

"Hey, we're not talkin' white dresses and picket fences yet. But he's cool, you know. And hot." Faith's gaze had wandered over to where Wood was piling their stuff into a beaten old car, her eyes softening when they fell on him. It made Buffy smile a little, even she'd chosen not to think about where they'd gotten that car.

"'Sides" Faith had continued. "Check out the irony of me endin' up with the school principal. Betcha no one saw that one coming!"

Buffy had laughed too, because, really, it was absurd. "I probably would have laid more money on him being eaten."

A final grin, a wink, and way too much information, "oh, he will be," and Faith was gone. Gone to a new Hellmouth, to earn her own strange version of redemption. 

Buffy has no idea if she'll ever see the other one and only again, or even if she wants to. There's too much history between them to ever really be friends, and too much jealousy to truly work together as partners. 

So now Buffy sits beside Dawn on the bus, spilling out the details of their Big Move, and watching her sister's face remain passive and neutral, hands folded in her lap. It's not the reaction Buffy had expected, and she can feel the nastier side of herself yawning and stretching inside; that intense irritation she can never quite stifle when things don't go her way. It's an all too familiar feeling when dealing with Dawn. 

Yet she tries to control her disappointment as Dawn speaks to a distant spot on the flat horizon. 

"England. This is absolutely decided?"

"Well, yeah, I guess...I mean, I suppose if you don't want to go..." Buffy pauses, tries to form some thoughts. Decides to be honest rather than make excuses. "I don't think I have any choice, Dawn. Not right now, anyway."

"No, and it's all about you..." Her voice is flat, neutral. 

"What?"

"But I'm not English." A change of tack rather than an answer.

"But you'll love England!"

"How do you know? You haven't been there."

"I just...I know, all right. It'll be cool." More irritation, worming its way into her voice despite her best efforts to control it. "Besides, Dawn, we don't have any choice." No doubt this time, just upbeat decisiveness. Put on a happy face, stir a little excitement. 

"Anyway, you like history, right? England's all about the history and stuff. Spike's already talking about all the things he wants to show you..."

A flinch, narrow shoulders trembling a bit. "You talked about it with Spike?"

"Yeah, last night when we..." Momentary panic. "Last night."

The silence between them stretches on for an age, growing thick and uncomfortable. Then Dawn turns to look at her, large blue eyes searching her with that intense, all-seeing gaze that sometimes makes even the Slayer tremble. Whatever her sister sees seems to satisfy her. 

"No, it's okay, you're right." She says, dropping her eyes to her hands. "There is nothing for me here, now. England'll be good. And maybe, you know, we can see dad?"

At this, Buffy gives a genuine smile. "I'm working on it, Dawn. He's in London a lot, so maybe, yeah."

"Cool then." There's a glimmer of something in Dawn's voice, and Buffy decides it must be happiness. "England here we come."

Relief, like a cool shower, and Buffy hugs her sister enthusiastically. "Excellent! Oh, I'm so glad you're excited too." 

They talk for a little, and plan. Yeah, they'll live in London, and Giles will buy them a place - or rent them one, hopefully someplace swanky. Maybe they can shop at Harrods? She hopes so. Marks & Spencer too. And they were definitely having a real afternoon tea, and would certainly see castles. Then they fall silent, and after another quick hug, Buffy makes her excuses and wanders back to Spike. 

He greets her with a snicker, a daring caress that makes her shiver and tremble, then words that make her giggle and slap away his hands. It was fun to be happy again, she thinks. Fun to act sixteen again.

********************

Angel Investigations was no more, that much was obvious. Spike wonders if he's ever felt quite so relieved as he did when they'd arrived to find that Angel wasn't there.

The building was empty. Not quite abandoned, but getting there. The musky smell of old hotel, of countless visitors, still lingers, but Spike can barely sense the scent of a familiar vampire and his mini-troop of do-gooder mates. 

Still, the Scoobies weren't the type to look a gift horse in the mouth, not when vast and comfortable accommodation is on offer. Willow had unlocked the door with a simple spell, and Giles and Buffy had hurried the girls in as Willow then dialed some fellow called Fred to find out where the hell everyone was and Xander and Andrew searched for a telephone book or a spare takeaway menu. 

Spike sets about trying to find a fridge, and maybe some blood. Least, it being Angel's and all, it'd probably be good. 

He'd be lying if he said he was comfortable with this arrangement. Seeking succor from a bloke he hates, treading on his sire's territory without the appropriate call to arms. It's enough to make him bristle. He can't help the lingering jealousy, either. Trust Angel to own something as plush as this, to make his living in such a proper, responsibly manly way, earning dosh for doing favors for the otherwise helpless, while Spike lives off the charity of the woman he loves. Standing in the foyer, hands clenching, Spike realizes that he doesn't have any plans for doing anything income earning, even now. Funny how that still offends his Victorian sense of propriety. Just not enough to do anything about it. 

"They've relocated." Willow's voice, breaking through his thoughts. 

"You're kidding me? They left this place?" Dawn, sounding stunned, even awed. He feels himself cringe. "For what? The Taj Mahal?" 

"Um..." There's a slight crack to the Witch's voice, enough to pique his attention. "Wolfram and Hart."

Spike blinks; hears a chorus of voices - 

"Oh my god!"

"You're joking!"

"No way!"

"Angel?"

He smirks. Nice to know a certain evil law firm's reputation precedes it, even amongst the ranks of the white and pure. He's shocked too, slightly amused, wonders if maybe also a tad disappointed, but he dismisses that fast. Got no expectations where Angel's concerned, he reminds himself quickly. Couldn't even hazard a guess at what the Old Man thinks he's doing, but there's probably a heroically good reason. Or maybe some really snazzy cars. Poof had always had a liking for them.

"Apparently the firm's had an epiphany." Willow says, and Spike's not sure if she's quoting Fred, or just being sarcastic.

"That is most extremely strange." Giles now. "But I'm sure Angel has his reasons. We are definitely out of the loop."

"But they're fine with us staying here." Willow continues, to much relief. "Oh, and Buffy - Angel's on his way."

It takes a second to resonate, and Spike's not quite quick enough to catch whatever expression flashed across Buffy's face in that time. By the time she turns to face him, she's controlled, expression gentle and a little sympathetic, large eyes filled with that commanding calm.

'Be good, okay," she says softly, approaching him, laying her hand on his arm. He imagines he can feel the warmth through his duster. It's searing. For a moment, he thinks that her voice sounds condescending, and he feels something stir inside him, a red hot anger. But it's gone fast, replaced by something he resolutely refuses to acknowledge as fear. 

"Yeah, I'll play nice," he promises. "Promised already, didn't I?"

She nods, maybe not quite convinced, but satisfied for now. He wants to kiss her, here, in front of everyone, in Angel's lobby, maybe even as Angel walks in those gaudy double doors, but she drops her gaze in a silent refusal. He stiffens, can't quite contain the soft, annoyed beginning of a frustrated growl. 

"Spike..." She sounds tired, and he curses internally, but leans into her touch as she gently runs her hand along his cheek, covers her hand with his. Mine. For a long time, they stay like that, gazes locked, and she doesn't pull away. 

Then Giles coughs, and Buffy starts. The world comes back – Willow's shuffle, Dawn's impassive, curious watchfulness, Xander's dark, suspicious glare, the mixed looks of jealousy and interest from the assorted potentials. Andrew's silly, dreamy smile. 

"I've got work to do," Buffy says, removing her hand. "Talk to you in a bit."

And then she's gone. 

The walls seem to close in on him as he watches her walk away. 


End file.
